Chapter 7 - The Rattlesnake’s Strike
The first legal salvo arrived on a Tuesday,
delivered by a man in a cheap suit who looked like he’d rather be anywhere else.
He didn't come to the front gate;
he waited by the mailbox at the edge of the property line,
clutching a thick manila envelope.
I watched him on the security monitors Mr. Sterling had installed,
my heart performing a slow,
heavy thud against my ribs.
I walked down the long gravel driveway,
the sun hot on my neck,
and met him at the fence.
“Mrs. Eleanor Brooks?”
he asked,
wiping sweat from his brow.
“I am.”
“You’ve been served.”
He handed me the papers and scurried back to his car as if he expected me to hex him.
I didn't open them there.
I walked back to the house,
the gravel crunching under my boots like the bones of my old life.
I sat at Arthur’s desk and spread the documents out.
Mason wasn't just suing me for "wrongful eviction."
He was filing for an emergency injunction to freeze the estate,
claiming I was "mentally unfit" and had been "unduly influenced" by Arthur’s attorney.
The audacity of it was breathtaking.
He was using the very plan he had discussed with Harper,
but now he was putting it on legal letterhead.
He alleged that I had "stolen" the inheritance from the "rightful heirs" through manipulation.
I laughed,
a dry,
harsh sound that echoed in the empty room.
I picked up the phone and called Mr. Sterling.
“He’s doing it,”
I said.
“He’s claiming I’m senile.”
“I expected as much,”
Sterling replied,
his voice cool and professional.
“It’s a desperation move,
Eleanor.
He has no money,
no home,
and no leverage.
This is a hail mary.”
“What do we do?”
“We push back.
Hard.
I’ve already secured the deposition from Dr. Aris.
It turns out,
the 'doctor' Mason hired has a history of questionable ethics and a pending lawsuit for insurance fraud.
When I threatened him with a subpoena,
he folded like a paper crane.”
I felt a ripple of relief,
but the weight of the battle still sat heavy on my shoulders.
“He’s my son,
Sterling.
Why is he doing this?”
“Because he thinks he’s entitled to your life,”
Sterling said.
“He doesn't see you as a person.
He sees you as an obstacle between him and a bank account.”
That night,
I didn't sleep.
I walked the perimeter of the house,
checking the locks and the windows.
I felt like a soldier in a trench,
waiting for the next shell to fall.
I looked at the photos of Mason on the mantle,
and for the first time,
I didn't see my son.
I saw a predator.
I took the photos down,
one by one,
and placed them facedown in a drawer.
The house felt lighter after that.
The air felt clearer.
I realized that Mason’s greatest weapon wasn't the law;
May you like
it was my guilt.
And I had finally run out of it.
